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( See page 20.) 


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b4444444444444444 

OUR LITTLE 
SERVIAN COUSIN 


By 

Clara Vostrovsky Winlow 

Author of “ Our Little Bohemian Cousin,” 
“ Our Little Bulgarian Cousin,” etc. 

Illustrated by 

John Goss 



Boston 

L. C. Page & Company 

MDC CC CXI 1 1 


*4444444444444444 




•Wr| 2 ,^ 



Copyright , 1913, by 
L. C. Page & Company 

(incorporated) 

All rights reserved 


First Impression, October, 1913 


THE COLONIAL PRESS 
C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A. 



'©Class 4 941 

'iU/ 


PREFACE 


Our little Servian cousin lives in one of the 
Balkan countries, in the southeastern part of 
Europe. These countries have just emerged 
successfully from a war with their old enemy, 
Turkey which will no doubt result in a con- 
siderable enlargement of the territory of 
each. 

Servian people are to be found not only in the 
kingdom of Servia, but also in the brave little 
neighboring kingdom of Montenegro, which, 
tiny as it is, has nevertheless always maintained 
its independence of Turkey; and also in several 
countries belonging now to Austria-Hungary: 
Croatia and Slavonia, Dalmatia, Istria, Bosnia 
and Herzegovina, Banat, etc. 

Small and comparatively unimportant though 


VI 


Preface 


the Servian kingdom is to-day, it was once a 
powerful empire. The memory of this past 
history has been kept alive in the hearts of its 
people through stirring folk songs and ballads, 
many of them of great beauty, and the hope has 
never died that some day their beloved country 
would regain its past glories. 

At present there is a growing, united-race 
feeling among all Servians, wherever found. 

In the past there have been artificial boundary 
lines, due partly to the diplomatic intrigue of 
other nations, but largely, too, to a difference 
in religion, that of Servia and Montenegro be- 
ing Russo-Greek, that of several of the Aus- 
trian countries being Roman Catholic. 

With so many Servian inhabitants, one at 
heart with their Mother Land, Servia, forming 
part of the Austria-Hungarian Empire, it is 
natural, perhaps, that the latter should fear and 
discourage in every possible way the growth 
and advancement of the Servian kingdom, 


Preface 


vii 

which also forms a barrier to Austria’s further 
expansion towards the south. 

To understand the mutual hatred of the Ser- 
vians and the Austrians it is necessary to keep 
this antagonism of interests in mind. 

Clara Vostrovsky Winlow. 

September r , igi 3. 


Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 



Preface 



I. 

White Week . 

• • • 

. . i 

II. 

Dushan’s Pobratime 

. 18 

III. 

The Two Slavas 

. . . 

. 30 

IV. 

The Moba and a 

Journey . 

• • 43 

V. 

The Guslar 

. 

• • 55 

VI. 

School Days . 

. • • 

. 62 

VII. 

A Spinning Bee 

... 

. 70 

VIII. 

Christmas . 

. • • 

. . 80 

IX. 

Belgrade . 

. 

. . 92 





List of Illu strations 


PAGE 


“ He liked best the tending of the sheep ” 

(See page 20) Frontispiece ^ 


Dushan’s Mother 

Servian Peasants 

“ The water was poured over the hands ” 
“ By nine o’clock the streets were filled 

WITH VILLAGE FOLK ” 

Servian Peasant Girl 

Servians listening to a Guslar 

King Peter Karageorgevitch of Servia . 

“ He was met at the threshold by his 

MOTHER ” 

A PEDDLER OF SWEETENED WATER, BELGRADE 


12 

26 \S 
34 v" 

38 v 
44 
58 
68 

86 ‘v 

97 


^ \ \ 



Our Little Servian Cousin 


CHAPTER I 

WHITE WEEK 

Dushan had a secret, and little Militza, his 
sister, weeding in the strip of flower garden on 
one side of the long, low, rectangular house 
which was her home, shrugged her shoulders 
impatiently as she thought of it. It was cer- 
tainly most unjust that she should not be told! 
She had had no peace of mind since she dis- 
covered Dushan and three of his companions 
holding a conference behind the cattle-shed. 

At first she had pleaded with Dushan that he 
tell her, promising the most absolute secrecy; 
but he had scornfully answered that “ 'little chil- 


2 Our Little Servian Cousin 

dren mustn’t try to be too wise, or they’ll get 
into trouble.” 

“ He hadn’t any right to be so saucy,” she 
said, quite out loud, to herself, shaking her 
little head, by way of emphasis, “ for I am 
already eight, and he is only twelve ! ” Then 
she went on so vigorously with her work that 
she uprooted some basilicum, or sweet basil, 
which is considered a sacred plant by the Ser- 
vian peasants. This somewhat startled her, and 
she quickly tried to repair the mischief. 

Suddenly, however, she arose, threw her 
trowel crossly from her, and stood for a while 
shoving her sandaled feet back and forth in the 
ground, and pondering how the mystery might 
best be solved. 

At last, with a sigh, she sat down by the 
house, leaning her little brown head against the 
whitewashed walls, and dosing her eyes that 
she might think quite undisturbed. 

The garden was on the south side of the 


White Week 


3 

house, and the warm spring sunshine and the 
air, fragrant with the scent of herbs and early 
blossoms, made it a pleasant place in which to 
dream. But Militza was not dreaming; she 
was busy planning, now a discovery of the 
secret, and then, with vigorous nods of the 
head, a clever way of revenging herself by 
having a secret of her own! 

Up in the gables the doves cooed in the un- 
tiring fashion of their kind, while on the roof 
a stork seemed to be examining the chimney as 
a possible place for a nest; but the very serenity 
of all this had to-day an irritating effect on the 
little girl. 

It was the beginning of Easter time, which 
to the Servians is known as “ White Week,” 
and when, having discarded all her plans as 
impracticable, Militza rather gloomily entered 
the house, she found her mother busy preparing 
the eggs for Easter Sunday. Having washed 
her hands, she gravely took her place beside 


Our Little Servian Cousin 


4 

her, and was soon intent on her work of making 
original designs of wax on each egg. These 
eggs were afterwards to be dyed a brilliant red, 
so that, when the wax should be removed, a 
white pattern would be left. 

Militza had first tried her hand at egg deco- 
ration when only six years old, and now, at eight 
years, succeeded in making some simple, but 
very neat, patterns. Her mother watched her 
grave face with an amused expression; and at 
last surprised the little girl by asking : “ So 
Dushan refuses to part with his secret?” 

Militza looked up from her work eagerly. 

“Why, mother, do you know?” she in- 
quired. 

Her pretty mother nodded her head. 

“ Yes,” she answered, “ but don’t ask me. 
I’m sworn to silence ! Only, don’t take it so 
seriously. It’s to be a big joke.” 

Now, how was Militza not to take it seri- 
ously? She looked gloomier than ever, so, to 


White Week 


5 

comfort the child, her mother told her a story 
about the sweet basil that grew in their gar- 
den. 

“ The Basil,” she said, “ complained to the 
Dew that, for two nights, it had not fallen on 
her. 

“ 1 1 was away,’ answered the Dew, ‘ watch- 
ing a great marvel. A vila 1 had a quarrel with 
an eagle, each claiming ownership of the moun- 
tain. At last the Vila broke the eagle’s wings. 
Then the young eagles set up a cry, for they 
wondered what would become of them now. 
A swallow flew up ( all swallows are great 
travellers, you know), and promised to carry 
the young birds to the wonderful land of Ind, 
where the clover reaches up to the shoulders of 
the horses and the sun never sets.’ ” 

Militza’s bright little face had almost a smile 
as her mother finished. 

“ Oh, mother,” she exclaimed, “ Spring is 


1 Mountain spirit. 


6 Our Little Servian Cousin 

surely here for, do you know? the stork has 
returned to her nest on our chimney 1 ” 

Just then Dushan’s voice was heard outside. 

Quickly removing her work, the little girl 
ran to join her brother. Dushan assumed as 
unconscious an air as possible, as she came up, 
even to humming a careless tune; but he quite 
expected her. He found it very pleasant to be 
suddenly of so great importance, and such a 
mystery, to his sister, and he strutted about 
with what he considered a royal air, every now 
and then saying or doing something to lead 
Militza to think that she was on the path of 
discovery, and then laughing with delight at 
her being “ taken in.” 

Everything was forgotten after supper, how- 
ever, for there was to be an impromptu dance 
on the village green, to which everybody was 
invited, and to which, of course, everybody 
would come. There were many such dances all 
through the Easter season, and indeed at other 


White Week 


7 

times, as well, especially, perhaps, on the Ser- 
vian holidays, of which there is one almost every 
other day in the year! This excess of holidays 
always gives an excuse for merrymaking and 
may partly account for the light-heartedness of 
the Servian peasant. 

As the dance was to break up early, many of 
the younger children were allowed to attend. 
It was a bright moonlight night, and, shortly 
after an early evening meal, the people began 
to gather, the women in their short, gay, pic- 
turesque costumes, and the men in sober-hued, 
home-made garments. There was much joking 
and laughing and snatches of song. 

Shortly after, seven immense fires were lit, 
and then the musicians, who played on flute, 
bagpipe and fiddle, struck up one of the national 
dances, and at once a merry company of young 
men and women, holding each other by the 
hands, formed a half-circle. First, all moved 
a few steps to the left, and then a few steps to 


8 Our Little Servian Cousin 

the right, and then a few steps backwards and 
forwards, and the dance ( kolo ) was in full 
swing. 

While this was going on, the older folks 
chatted together in groups, or strolled slowly 
about, while the children watched and ap- 
plauded the dancers, or played merry games of 
hide and seek among the various groups, get- 
ting usually into everybody’s way, but sublimely 
unconscious of the fact. 

As nine o’clock approached, however, the 
people began to disperse, for clouds, threaten- 
ing rain, had gathered in the sky, and all were 
anxious, besides, for a good night’s rest for the 
morrow. 

On Shrove Tuesday the little village, with its 
long, low, box-like houses, all very much like 
that in which Dushan and Militza lived, seemed 
to swarm with children, all in a state of delight- 
ful excitement, for this day is also the “ Witches’ 
Day,” and the children felt the responsibility 


White Week 


9 

rest on their little shoulders of seeing that not 
a single witch was about ! 

“ Did you see that the shells of all the eggs 
used at your home were crushed, to-day? ” one 
eager little girl asked Militza, whom she met. 

“ Yes, indeed,” was the response, with a su- 
perior air. “ Do you think I don’t know that 
the witches could use them for boats in crossing 
streams if I didn’t?” 

There was a strong odor of garlic wherever 
the children moved, for, without exception, all 
had pieces of it tied to strings and hung like 
amulets around their necks. These were to be 
placed under their pillows at night, as the strong 
odor was supposed to be particularly obnoxious 
to witches. 

Here and there, large groups formed, and 
told marvellous witch stories, which were re- 
ceived with grave looks, testifying either to the 
children being good actors or to the stories be- 
ing received at their face value. 


io Our Little Servian Cousin 


“ Now,” said one of Dushan’s chums, a tall 
lad with a particularly merry look in his eyes, 
“ one thing is certain, and that is that any 
woman who is a witch has only to rub a special 
kind of grease into her armpits, and, if she pro- 
nounces the right words, she can then fly off and 
take supper with other witches whenever she 
likes. Petar Popovich told me that the words 
were : 4 Avoid the thorn, avoid the trees, and 
carry me straight to meeting.’ He told me, too, 
he had the right kind of grease, for he had 
bought some for two dinars 1 from the gip- 
sies. I was much interested when he asked 
me to try it with him. You can imagine 
how anxious I felt, and also that I was a bit 
scared. 

“ We met together in a field, when it was 
quite dark. Petar had the grease with him, 
and we rubbed and rubbed as directed, and then 
solemnly repeated the formula — ” 


1 A dinar is about twenty cents of our money. 


White Week 


1 1 

Here the merry eyes drooped, as the boy 
made an impressive pause. 

“Well, what happened?” eagerly asked 
several voices. 

“ I’ll leave that for you to imagine,” was the 
languid response, as the mischievous boy skipped 
away. 

But, exciting as Shrove Tuesday was, it could 
not last 'longer than the allotted time, and 
Militza found herself again tormented with the 
thought of Dushan’s secret. In the meantime 
she devoted all of her spare moments to the 
preparation of more eggs. 

At last Easter Sunday came. The village had 
quite a festal air, for the housewives had not 
stinted their efforts to have everything spot- 
lessly clean for the day. One could not doubt, 
too, but that everybody who appeared on the 
streets was in holiday attire, both because of 
the way in which they carried themselves and 
because of the gay colors to be seen. 


12 Our Little Servian Cousin 

Dushan secretly admired his mother, who 
was still a young woman, when she appeared, 
ready for church, in a full silk skirt, just short 
enough to show the embroidered white linen 
gown beneath, and a snowy chemisette, trimmed 
with hand-made lace. Over this was a gold 
and silver embroidered bolero of tanned skin, 
with the fleece inside, open in front, and edged 
with black yarn. Covering the front of her 
skirt was a woollen apron, beautifully hand- 
embroidered with original designs. Her long, 
dark-brown hair was coiled around a kind of 
fez, decorated with seed pearls of considerable 
value, which had come down to her from her 
great-great-grandmother. 

Militza, who ’loved bright colors, looked like 
a pretty flower or a gay butterfly in her quaint 
costume, cut not unlike her mother’s, but em- 
broidered in red. A sleeveless vest, which she 
wore, was also red. It was of velvet and deco- 
rated with gold and coral buttons. 

































































































White Week 


13 

Dushan and his father were dressed in thick 
homespun of a dark color. Dushan’s white 
shirt reached almost to his knees, as a blouse, 
and was encircled by a band at the waist. Over 
this he wore an open jacket or vest. His 
trousers were tucked into heavy stockings with 
a broad, flowered band at the top, such as we 
sometimes see in this country on bicycle or golf 
stockings. He wore a wide-brimmed sailor hat; 
but his father had on the conventional cap of 
sheepskin, and the usual big, leather, peasant 
sandals with straps around the ankles. 

“ Christ is risen ! ” the people called to one 
another by way of greeting. 

“ He is, in truth! ” was the response. 

After church, the eggs were produced, every 
adult visitor receiving one and every child 
several. 

A band of gipsies wandered from house to 
house, singing, wishing good luck, and playing 
on the typical gipsy instruments of violin, 


14 Our Little Servian Cousin 

zoorle (the Turkish clarionette) , talambasse, 
and drums. They expected, and generally re- 
ceived, a piece of money. 

These gipsies were more or less feared by 
the children, and by many of the peasants, as 
well, for they are supposed to be gifted with 
marvellous powers. 

As Dushan once put it, “ They have only to 
lift a finger to make any one love you, or despise 
you, as they choose.” 

In the afternoon the children gathered to- 
gether in groups for an egg-breaking contest. 

“ Here, Militza, let’s rap eggs,” said one of 
Militza’s little neighbors to her. 

“ Immediately,” was the merry response. 

The two children then faced each other and 
tapped their eggs together. After three taps 
Militza’s broke, and according to custom, she 
had to surrender it to her playmate, who at 
once put it into a little basket which she carried. 

“ You won this time,” Militza shouted, as 


White Week 


15 

she prepared for a contest with another friend; 
“ but perhaps I’ll win the next! ” 

Later, eggs, colored black, were carried to 
the neighboring churchyard, and left on the 
graves in token of the resurrection. 

Easter Sunday was not the only day of cele- 
bration. Easter Monday was almost as im- 
portant, and scarcely less so was the day after. 
Swings had been erected on a neighboring hill- 
side, and the girls, and some of the younger 
boys, kept them going throughout the days. 
Oh, what fun it was to see who could swing 
highest, or to play that one was travelling on 
some magical airship above the clouds ! 

The boys, in the meantime, were differently 
engaged. Dushan was with a group of wres- 
tlers, who were surrounded by interested com- 
rades. Further on, feats of running and jump- 
ing were performed, while stone and dart throw- 
ing proved to many a fascinating pastime. 

The adult persons were there, too; the 


1 6 Our Little Servian Cousin 

younger dancing, the older sitting in groups, 
chatting, eating, and drinking, and apparently 
never tiring of hearing or relating strange or 
laughable anecdotes. 

A dance by two Montenegrin men was espe- 
cially admired, and brought out loud applause. 

This was followed by two peasant girls 
springing lightly forward, their arms apparently 
glued to their sides, but, despite this one awk- 
ward feature, every movement was full of 
grace. At the end, the girls embraced, and 
were followed by another couple, and these by 
still another. 

Militza enjoyed herself so greatly that she 
rarely now thought of her brother’s secret. 
When she did, it seemed quite insignificant. 
So, when Monday evening came, she was quite 
startled to see the kitchen door suddenly open, 
and a strange company enter. They were 
dressed in bear-skins, their faces were covered 
with pumpkin masks, with beards and mustaches 


White Week 


17 

of flax attached; one of them even had horns 
and a tail. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the older people, 
trying to peer into their faces. Militza did her 
utmost to keep out of their reach. To her em- 
barrassment she found herself persistently fol- 
lowed by one of the number, and at last cor- 
nered. Then she instinctively threw out her 
hands, and quite unintentionally, displaced the 
mask of her tormentor ! To her amazement she 
found herself staring into Dushan’s rather 
startled eyes. 

“Why D — she began; but a warning 
finger was raised before she had finished. The 
mask was hastily re-adjusted, and Militza 
eagerly followed the group to the door, where 
a crowd of entranced children were awaiting 
them, ready to tag at their heels as they made 
further visits. 


CHAPTER II 


dushan’s pobratime 

But if there was considerable play on holi- 
days, the more necessary was it that sufficient 
work should be done on the other days. Dushan 
and Militza had their set tasks, when not in 
school. 

The little girl already knew something of 
spinning, weaving, and embroidering, and was 
just learning how to knit. The work that she 
did so early in life was not only for immediate 
use, but there were many pieces already put 
away as part of her wedding trousseau. Some- 
times, when she became impatient over these 
tasks, her mother would say, “ Ah, ah, child, 
your angel is weeping that your ears are open 
only to the evil one.” By this she referred to 
the common belief among the peasants that an 


Dushan’s Pobratime 


l 9 

angel always sits on our right shoulder, and a 
little devil on our left, offering contrary counsel. 

Militza also worked in the garden, especially 
at weeding, and sometimes she tended the flocks. 
When she worked with her mother there were 
some lessons that the latter never failed to im- 
press on her. One was the beauty of industry, 
especially in a woman. Another was the kind 
of modesty most becoming to a girl. There 
were numerous ways in which she must not try 
to match herself against boys; she must never 
cross the street when men do; at certain times 
it was proper for her to kiss their hands. It 
was no wonder that healthy Militza sometimes 
chafed under all these restrictions; but, as they 
were practised by all the girls she knew, she 
soon fell in with the general customs and was 
considered a well-behaved child. 

Dushan’s work was almost entirely out of 
doors, and much freer, on the whole. In the 
fruit season there was work in the orchards, 


20 Our Little Servian Cousin 


which consisted mainly of plum trees; but also 
had some apples, pears, and walnuts. Besides 
the orchards, his father owned several small 
parcels of land, considerable distances apart. 
These were planted in vegetables and grain. 
Dushan helped in all the work of getting these 
products ready for market. 

But, of all his duties, he liked best the tend- 
ing of the sheep or the swine. The latter were 
very different creatures from those we know in 
pens. They had a wide area over which to 
range, plenty of good clean water to drink, 
plenty of grass as food, as well as the mast in 
the near-by forest, particularly the fruit of the 
beech and oak trees, which gives a very agree- 
able flavor to their flesh, when killed. 

Once, when Dushan was dreamily herding 
swine, and feeling particularly content with his 
lot, he received an unexpected shock. Two 
strangers passed him on horseback. One of 
them, dressed like a foreign army officer, 


Dushan’s Pobratime 


21 


pointed at him, and said with a sneer in Ger- 
man, which Dushan sufficiently understood: 
u There you have your typical Servian, a herder 
of swine and nothing more.” 

Young as he was, Dushan keenly felt the in- 
sult which lay in the tone, even more than in 
the words, and his brown eyes flashed, and he 
clenched his hands. When his father joined him 
during the day, he related the incident. A glow 
of indignation spread over the broad, bony face 
of the father as he responded with the one 
word : 

“ Austrians ! ” 

Then, still indignant, he explained matters 
somewhat to Dushan by saying that, since the 
customs war with Austria, the latter had en- 
deavored in vain to ruin Servia. 

“ The trouble is,” he continued, sadly, “ that 
Servia stands in the way of Austria’s further 
expansion, and so Austria, being big, dares to 
act the bully to our little kingdom. She fears 


22 Our Little Servian Cousin 

too, no doubt, in case of Servia’s success and 
growth, the outcome of the sympathy between 
the Servian people of Austria 1 and those of 
Servia.” 

He was silent for a while and then concluded 
in a voice choked with emotion: “ Our situation, 
so far, has not been an enviable one, standing, 
as we do, between a greedy Christian nation on 
the one hand, and an entirely alien one on the 
other. In any case, we shall sell the liberty we 
have gained, and any more we are able to gain, 
very dearly.” And, brushing away the tears 
which had begun to glisten in his eyes, he hastily 
left his little son to ponder over what he had 
said. 

For a long while, after his father left, Dushan 
sat on the mossy ground with his back against 
the stump of an old beech tree, dreaming that 
he was already a man — a Zmay 2 — and able 


1 In Bosnia, Herzegovina, Croatia, Dalmatia, etc. 

2 The name that Servians give their bravest heroes. 


Dushan s Pobratime 23 

to give to Servia all that she so richly deserved, 
or able to convince Austria of her unfair atti- 
tude. These splendid day-dreams were typically 
ended when he drew from his belt a little mu- 
sical instrument called the Svirala, which he al- 
ways carried, and, placing it to his lips, gave 
expression to his feelings by playing some plain- 
tive national airs. While doing so he quite for- 
got his surroundings, when suddenly a shrill 
whistle just back of him made him stop. 

“ Oh, it’s you, is it? ” he exclaimed joyfully, 
jumping up into the arms of a boy not much 
older than himself, but considerably taller. 
This was his bosom friend, Yovan, from whom 
he had been parted for the last ten days. Yovan 
seemed equally glad to see Dushan, and, arm- 
in-arm, they began to stroll about while they ex- 
changed news. 

Naturally Dushan related the swine herd in- 
cident, so fresh in his mind, which Yovan re- 
ceived quite philosophically with a proverb : “ It 


24 Our Little Servian Cousin 

is better to have profit selling bran than to have 
loss selling gold.” 

Dushan looked up into his friend’s calm face, 
half indignantly, half admiringly, and wholly 
surprised. 

“ Don’t be angry with me, little brother,” 
Yovan made haste to say, as he looked down 
affectionately at Dushan, from his greater 
height. “ There are days when I’d feel as hotly 
as you do, but not to-day. Besides, let laugh 
who will ! wouldn’t we all be beggars if it hadn’t 
been for pork, a delicacy forbidden to the Turks, 
and so safe from their clutches in their old-time 
raids? ” 

Yovan went on to say that he had hastened 
to look up his friend as soon as he had returned 
home, but that he must leave him now. So, 
pledging to meet in the evening, they parted. 

Yovan’s unexpected coming had brightened 
the day for Dushan, and he sang snatches of 
gay song as he kept the pigs from straying. 


Dushan’s Pobratime 25 

But the pleasant evening, to which he was 
looking forward, was to be spoiled in a wholly 
unexpected way. When he returned to the vil- 
lage he was surprised to see a large gathering of 
peasants in front of his home. In the midst of 
these the foreign officer, who had passed him 
during the day, with a face scarlet with anger, 
was gesticulating wildly. 

“ The lad must have found it,” Dushan heard 
him say, as he came up, “ and I insist on his be- 
ing produced and searched and the property 
returned to me.” 

“ If he found it, he will return it without be- 
ing searched,” Dushan’s father answered calmly 
and disdainfully. “ As for being produced, he 
will produce himself at the proper time. You 
are, perhaps, mistaking us for your own country- 
men; we have different standards of honesty, 
evidently, than those to which you are accus- 
tomed.” 

The laugh which this produced and, still 


26 Our Little Servian Cousin 

more, the lack of respect with which he was 
treated, seemed to infuriate the officer, who bit 
his lips savagely. Just then he caught sight of 
Dushan and, without choosing his words, 
shouted : 

“ There is the thief! ” 

At these words Dushan’s father sprang for- 
ward with his fists clenched, and would have 
struck the foreigner had not some of his calmer 
neighbors held him back. 

Then it was explained to Dushan, who had 
pushed his way forward, that the stranger had 
accused him of finding and appropriating a valu- 
able hunting-knife that he had had with him. 

“ Do you remember his passing you this after- 
noon? ” asked one who seemed in authority. 

“ Yes, indeed,” answered Dushan, stoutly. 
“ And I remember, too, that he said: ‘ There!s 
your typical Servian; a herder of swine and 
nothing more ! ’ ” 

At this a murmur of resentment arose. Be- 



SERVIAN PEASANTS. 


















































































































. 






















, 
























Dushan’s Pobratime 27 

fore it had made any headway, Yovan elbowed 
his way forward. Quite out of breath, he yet 
managed to shout: “ I found your knife ! Here 
it is ! How dare you accuse — ” 

But, before he could regain enough breath to 
finish, the stranger had taken the article held out 
to him, and, with some muttered words, made 
his way to where his friend held his horse, glad 
to be away from the crowd, whose increasingly 
sullen looks and lowering brows betokened no 
good to him. 

“ That is what our national distrust of one 
another leads to,” remarked a peasant with a 
particularly serious cast of countenance. 

As those gathered began to disperse, Yovan 
and Dushan rushed into each other’s arms, and 
embraced in typical Servian fashion. 

“ Thou shalt be my adopted brother, my 
pobratime ” said Dushan. “ Long as I may 
live, I shall never find friend such as thou ! ” 
Yovan, always the calmer of the two, was 


28 Our Little Servian Cousin 


nevertheless much touched by his friend’s 
warmth. 

“ Pobratime! ” he repeated slowly. He knew 
very well all that the term implied, for Dushan 
referred to an old-time custom, known to every 
Servian and still practised, though rarely, in 
which persons, who recognize a kinship of 
soul, swear to a brotherhood more sacred even 
than that of blood. 

“ Ah, Dushan,” he exclaimed at length, “ you 
are already my brother; but, if you wish, I will 
take the vow to-morrow with you, for it is the 
day of our Holy St. George, the defender of 
growing things and persons. Until then, sleep 
well, Dushan dearest,” and, kissing each other 
on the cheeks, the two parted. 

Early next morning, had we been in the Ser- 
vian village, we would have seen the two go 
hand-in-hand to the little church and, kneeling 
before the altar, swear, in the name of God and 
St. John, an eternal friendship whose breech 


Dushan’s Pobratime 29 

was to be punished by Heaven. The kindly old 
priest who was present had not tried to dissuade 
them, young as they were, from following this 
ancient custom. To him the old institutions 
were sacred. “ ‘ Better let the village perish,’ ” 
he would often quote, “ ‘ than the old customs 
of the village.’ ” He impressed on the boys, 
however, the sacredness of the promise they had 
given, and recalled to their memory the heroes 
of history and the part played by their adopted 
brethren. 

“ Be ye faithful unto death,” were his parting 
words, “ and always help one another to do the 
right, even in little things.” 

It still lacked some minutes to breakfast time, 
and the boys, uplifted by the ceremony through 
which they had passed, spent it in discussing 
future plans and hopes. The difficulties that 
once seemed insurmountable now looked insig- 
nificant in the light of the glorious friendship 
to which they were pledged. 


CHAPTER III 


THE TWO SLAVAS 

The days passed on quite merrily, but un- 
eventfully, with their regular round of duties. 
As usual, the women were far busier than the 
men. Militza now helped in making the earth- 
ernware crockery used in the house. This was 
done by digging out some potter’s clay, pound- 
ing it with an axe, adding goats’ hair, and, after 
pouring on hot water, moulding the paste with 
the hands. The rim was always first drawn out, 
then the pot was shaped. Cold ashes were next 
strewn over it, to absorb the moisture, and, 
lastly, the vessel was placed in live coals, cov- 
ered with ashes, and left until morning, when 
it was ready for use. 

Whenever the work grew irksome there was 

always a holiday to which to look forward. The 

30 


The Two Slavas 31 

most important to Dushan’s family was the day 
of their patron saint. Every Servian family 
has a patron saint, and the fete in his honor is 
so universal an event that it is generally spoken 
of merely as Slava, the celebration, or Slaviti, 
to celebrate. 

For a whole week before this the family 
fasted. The house was given an especial clean- 
ing that all might be of spotless purity in the 
saint’s honor. This included the large kitchen, 
which was very neat, the woodwork being all 
planed, the benches always washed very clean. 
In this kitchen there was a square, low hearth, 
with a wide, open chimney in which hams and 
dry salted pork and beef were hanging, and on 
the beams of which were suspended chains for 
various cooking vessels. Most of the baking 
was not done here, but in a special oven in the 
courtyard adjoining. There was also a sitting 
and dining room, with crude religious prints on 
the wall, and a wooden panel, with the image of 


32 Our Little Servian Cousin 

the household saint, before which a small oil 
lamp was suspended. 

A bedroom opened out from this, the floor 
covered with a bright, home-made carpet. Un- 
derneath the house was a cellar, which now had 
barrels of wine and a special kind of brandy, 
made of plums; but, in winter, also served as a 
store-house for vegetables. Back of the gardens 
were the sheds for the domestic animals, and 
a big granary for grain. 

On the morning before the Slava day, Militza 
gathered a big bouquet of iris, called perunica 
after the old Slavic pagan god, Perun, ruler of 
thunder and lightning. There was probably no 
garden in the entire village without the iris, nor 
any house on whose roof did not grow the 
choovar-kutya, or house guardian, a plant be- 
lieved to protect the home from lightning 
strokes. 

“ I know you like these,” Militza remarked 
to her smiling mother, as she placed the bouquet 


The Two Slavas 33 

on a table in the sitting-room, in an earthern- 
ware vase made by herself. She then accom- 
panied her mother through the rooms in the last 
round of inspection that nothing should have 
been left undone, for guests were to begin ar- 
riving that afternoon. 

In the meantime, Dushan and his father had 
come in. They had had scarcely time to dress 
themselves in their best, as Militza and her 
mother had already done, when the first visitor 
announced himself with the shout: “ Oh, master 
of the house, are guests welcome? ” 

Dushan’s father hastened forward with hand 
outstretched. “ Certainly,” he responded, 
“ such good guests as you are.” 

It would have been quite curious to us to see 
these men embrace and kiss, the visitor remark- 
ing as he handed an apple to his host, “ May 
your Slava be happy ! ” And the host respond- 
ing, “ And may your soul be content before the 
Father Almighty.” 


34 Our Little Servian Cousin 

This first guest was a tall, lean man with a 
grave face, bronzed by the sun. He was 
Dushan’s koom, or godfather, and had been the 
principal witness at the wedding of Dushan’s 
parents. This &oowship is considered a very 
sacred relationship in Servia, and, as the other 
members of the family came forward, their 
greeting testified to the esteem in which the 
man was held. 

He was followed by other guests, who each 
brought a fruit of some kind, and then, after 
certain ceremonies and prayers had been ob- 
served, supper was announced. Militza’s 
mother first carried around a basin and a pitcher 
of water, that each guest might wash his hands, 
for no Servian would think of sitting down to a 
meal without having done so. The water was 
poured over the hands, which were held above 
the basin, not in it. Militza followed her 
mother with a finely embroidered towel. This 
duty performed, they all placed themselves at 




















> 


























































































































































The Two Slavas 35 

low tables, and the host began to serve his 
guests. It was not until next day, however, that 
the celebration, partly social, partly religious, 
was in full swing. Everybody who met 
Dushan’s father now saluted him with the 
words, Sretna Slava (A happy fete), and a 
cordial handshake, and the children shouted the 
same to Dushan and Militza. 

A large number of friends accompanied the 
family to church. No sooner were the services 
ended, than some one, outside, started to play 
one of the national dances, and brisk dancing 
took place. 

Many of the younger folks remained to dance 
all day. Others went to Dushan’s home, where 
a big mid-day meal awaited them, the principal 
dish of which was a roast of lamb. There was 
also an especial Slava cake, which had been con- 
secrated in the church, passed to each guest. 
The upper surface was divided by a cross into 
four sections, each one of which bore the initials 


36 Our Little Servian Cousin 

of the words: “ Jesus Christ, the Victor.” But 
the eyes of the children fastened themselves 
more particularly on what is called the Kolyivo, 
or sacrifice. This was formerly something killed 
with a knife, but now consists of boiled wheat, 
walnuts, and almonds sweetened with powdered 
sugar and piled up and decorated with colored 
frosting. 

Throughout the day the Kolyivo , and a kind 
of fruit preserve called Slatko, were passed, to- 
gether with coffee, to every guest. There was 
much singing and frequent firing of pistols — a 
Servian way of giving vent to pleasant excite- 
ment. When, finally, the koom began to recite 
some of the national songs describing the brave 
fights of Servian heroes with Turkish oppressors, 
all drew their chairs nearer and listened with a 
rapt attention which showed that, old as the 
stories were, they were very, very dear to the 
hearts of the hearers. 

But, if this Slava was an important one to a 


The Two Slavas 37 

single family, there was another which was of 
equal interest to the entire village, the celebra- 
tion of the village’s patron saint. This fell late 
in June, just after the close of school for vaca- 
tion. 

For several days before, great preparations 
were made for the event, which was tb be fol- 
lowed by a picnic in the woods near the church. 
The children could hardly contain themselves 
with excitement. Fifty or sixty sheep were 
killed. In every house there was much baking, 
particularly of bread. This was made by pla- 
cing the dough into a certain kind of earthen- 
ware dish, covering it with embers, and baking 
slowly. 

It was only five o’clock when Militza awoke 
on this Slava morning. 

“Dushan! Dushan! get up,” she shouted. 
“It's Slava day!” 

Dushan did not have to be called. By six 
both children were busy helping their parents 


38 Our Little Servian Cousin 

pack the things to be taken. These included 
five big loaves of bread, and several jars of 
home-made wine in wicker baskets. 

By nine o’clock the streets were filled with vil- 
lage folk on their way to the church. There, a 
procession was formed, with a strong young 
man, carrying a wooden cross, at the head. Be- 
hind him came the priest with the Gospels, and 
several peasants, two by two, bearing holy pic- 
tures, called Ikons. Other peasants followed 
with their hats in their hands. When the pro- 
cession reached a lime tree which marked one 
of the boundaries of the village, and on which a 
cross had once been cut, it stopped, and men, 
women, and children fell to their knees while 
the priest, with appropriate ceremonies, renewed 
the cross. Any tree so marked was considered 
sacred. It was a sin to break its branches, or 
even to throw a stone into it. 

This ended the purely religious side, and now 
came the merrymaking part, beginning with the 



VILLAGE FOLK 






fij ' 



•. - . 
























The Two Slavas 


39 

firing of pistols. The place chosen for the picnic 
was in a little clearing, in a near-by grove of 
lime and wild pear trees, which was soon 
reached, and where every one immediately be- 
gan to work, the children gathering twigs for 
the fires, the older boys splitting wood, and pre- 
paring places on which the sheep were to be 
roasted whole. 

Before these were ready to be eaten, the little 
girls and boys ran into the forest to gather 
strawberries and raspberries, which were very 
plentiful. There was a good-natured rivalry 
displayed in trying to gather the most. Militza 
especially exerted herself, and, when she found 
that two of her companions had outdone her, 
she felt so chagrined that the tears began to 
gather in her eyes. 

Just then a light step was heard behind her. 
It was Yovan, separated for once from his mate. 
He took in the situation at a glance and, bend- 
ing over, spoke to the child. There was always 


40 Our Little Servian Cousin 

something peculiarly comforting in the name 
“ Little Sister,” which he gave her. 

“ Little Sister,” he now whispered, “ remem- 
ber the saying, ‘ A middling good luck is the 
best.’ ” The next instant he had skipped away, 
boy fashion; but Militza’s face had cleared. 

So, after all, it was a merry lot of little girls 
that danced up with baskets of berries to where 
their mothers and older sisters were spreading 
table-cloths and piling pyramids of bread in the 
center of each. 

And how much all did eat when at last the 
sheep were ready to be served, and all had 
placed themselves, cross-legged, around the 
tables! Dushan and Militza sat next to an 
older brother who had been married only a few 
months before. His wife, according to custom, 
addressed her little sister-in-law and brother-in- 
law with most endearing names, calling Militza 
most often “ My blue iris,” and Dushan 
“ pigeon ” or “ hero.” 


The Two Slavas 


4i 


At the conclusion of the meal, one person 
after another burst into song. Some of the 
songs chosen were the national airs: others 
were entirely impromptu. 

Then an old peasant took up his bagpipe and, 
at the signal, two couples jumped up and 
danced a peculiar dance which consisted of 
shakes of the head and clapping of hands as 
well as movement of the feet. Most of the 
girls wore several rows of silver coins around 
their necks, and these added a pleasant tinkling 
sound to the drone of the bagpipe music. 
Every now and then one of the men gave ex- 
pression to his joy by shouting out a few verses 
— often very saucy ones — composed on the 
spur of the moment. 

It would be tedious to relate all the games 
played, all the stories told, all the jokes perpe- 
trated, and all the songs sung by the merry 
party before the hour of departure. As that 
neared, the company gathered in a cluster 


42 Our Little Servian Cousin 

and spontaneously joined in the patriotic song 
of all the Servians, “ Onamo ! Onamo ! ” writ- 
ten by the present talented King of Monte- 
negro. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE MOBA AND A JOURNEY 

It was in the early Fall, before the opening 
of school, that one of the village folks, a rather 
elderly man, was taken unexpectedly ill. As 
there was no physician near, the neighbors did 
all in their power to help his wife, taking turns 
in caring for the sufferer, and prescribing herb 
remedies. Various charms also were practised, 
and, when the man’s good constitution brought 
him through, these charms were of course given 
the credit. 

Harvest time came shortly after, and the 
women and girls put aside their home work 
and joined the men out of doors, unconsciously 
alive, as they worked, to the beauty of the fine 
grain with its varying shades of green as it bent 

before the wind. The peasant who had been 
43 


44 Our Little Servian Cousin 

ill was only just able to be about, and so the 
work in the fields fell entirely on his wife and 
two little daughters, and proceeded but slowly. 
Seeing this, the young men and women of the 
village agreed that, as soon as their own crops 
were in, they would go in a body to their help. 

“ What would the world come to, if we did 
not help one another?” they said. This assist- 
ance was in accordance with an old custom, 
called Mob a, or voluntary co-operation. 

Dushan and Yovan, both strong for their age, 
were allowed, for the first time in their lives, to 
join in what proved to be a very pleasant and 
merry pastime, for the afternoon in which the 
work was done was literally filled with song, 
laughter, and good-fellowship. From the field 
all proceeded singing to the peasant’s home, 
several of the girls with field flowers interwoven 
in their long hair. 

They were met at the door by the man, who 
was still very feeble, and his family, the latter 



SERVIAN PEASANT GIRL. 







































































































■ 























The Moba and a Journey 45 

bearing water and snowy towels for hand wash- 
ing. When this had been done the peasant 
placed a lit candle before an Ikon , carried burn- 
ing incense through the house, and then invited 
his friends to pray, for to invoke God’s bless- 
ing before eating has been practised by Servians 
since time immemorial. This ceremony finished, 
a plentiful supper, consisting of meats, fruit, 
cakes, nuts and sweets, was served to all. 

After supper came, as usual, dancing, singing, 
and the telling of stories and anecdotes. Sev- 
eral of the latter showed how Servian peasants 
had outwitted their Turkish masters, often 
making the latter appear decidedly ridiculous. 
Some were based on the Austrian occupation 
of Bosnia and Herzegovina, which Servians do 
not consider to have been of benefit to those 
countries. 

“ How much better off you are now than 
when under Turkey,” an Austrian, in one of 
these stories, is supposed to say to a native of 


46 Our Little Servian Cousin 

Bosnia. “ Then, when a Turk met you in the 
road, you had to jump off your donkey and bow 
low before him.” 

“Yes,” answers the Serb, “I don’t have to 
do that now. I haven’t any donkey.” 

Yovan and Dushan came in for their share of 
good-natured teasing on their still new relation- 
ship of Pobratime. 

It was only now and then that the talk at all 
grew serious, and this was mainly when a tall, 
fine-looking young man, who had spent several 
years among the brave people of the neighbor- 
ing kingdom of Montenegro, Servians like 
themselves, was questioned. He had much to 
say about the unexcelled Montenegrin hospi- 
tality. 

“In 19 1 1,” he said, among other things, 
“ while the Albanians were fighting the Turks 
for liberty, and Montenegro had pledged itself 
to neutrality, four thousand Albanian women 
found refuge in the little mountain kingdom. 


The Moba and a Journey 47 

Fearful though the people were of getting in- 
volved in the war, they hadn’t the heart to give 
up these women, knowing that death or dis- 
honor would then be their lot. Poor them- 
selves, they yet fed them daily, thus proving 
true to the traditions of hospitality, sacred for 
centuries among them.” 

There was an impressive silence when he 
finished, broken finally by the host exclaiming 
with fervor: “What is to their credit is to the 
honor of all Servians. May the bond uniting 
us to our brethren of other lands grow stronger 
with the years ! ” 

This was greeted with a round of applause, 
for the Servian cherishes the hope that one day 
all the Servian countries may be united into one 
kingdom. 

Then the music broke out again and the eve- 
ning ended in a general dance. 

The next morning Dushan felt somewhat dis- 
inclined to work, and stopped in the garden to 


48 Our Little Servian Cousin 

watch Militza rather enviously. She was kneel- 
ing under a tree, laboriously trying to build 
some sort of house out of stones. 

“ But, Militza,” said Dushan, somewhat mis- 
chievously, thinking of the superstition practiced 
by Servians before building, “ I am afraid that 
you forgot to find out if that place is lucky.” 

“ No, indeed, I didn’t forget,” replied 
Militza, without looking up. “ Last night I 
placed four stones in the four corners, and this 
morning I found a big black bug under this 
one,” and she pointed to a corner of the founda- 
tion. 

Dushan was silenced and, looking around for 
some excuse to linger, saw a snail come creep- 
ing out from under the grass. He ran to it and 
begged it to put out its horns : “ Snail, snail, put 
out your horns ! ” 

Just then Yovan’s merry whistle was heard 
outside. He came rushing into the garden. 

“ I have been looking all over the world for 


The Moba and a Journey 49 

you, Dushan. Father and I are going to visit 
Ljubitza’s folks this afternoon, and father says 
you may go with us.” 

Dushan gave a shout. Ljubitza was the wife 
of Yovan’s cousin and, before her marriage, had 
lived at a Zadruga , several miles distant. Life 
at a Zadruga was very different from that in 
their village, where each peasant family was in- 
dependent of others, and, being different, was 
sure to prove interesting. Besides, Dushan 
looked forward to the long ride in his beloved 
friend’s company. 

Militza had jumped up when Yovan spoke, 
and now, at Dushan’s request, ran into the house 
to tell her mother and help in the preparations 
for Dushan’s departure. 

The little girl knew what was needed. With 
her mother’s permission, after tidying herself, 
she took a mixing bowl from one of the shelves, 
and proceeded to make a plain cake, on the top 
of which she carefully stamped a flower design. 


50 Our Little Servian Cousin 

Her mother, in the meanwhile, was busy making 
cookies which were to be taken to the children 
of the Zadruga. Dushan then came in and 
made himself ready. 

When Yovan and his father appeared they 
had similar gifts, with the addition of numerous 
small bouquets of flowers, to which small coins 
were attached by a silken thread. These were 
for the women. 

All called “ Sretnj poot” (“a prosperous 
journey ”), as Dushan climbed into the lumber- 
ing wagon, and soon they were off. 

The journey was fully as enjoyable as Dushan 
had expected. They drove by many a fine- 
looking orchard, and waving fields of delicate, 
blue flax blossoms, and other fields of stubble 
that a few weeks before had been grain, until 
they came to a chain of hills covered with a 
forest of walnut, oak and wild fruit trees. As 
they passed more deeply into it, the twitter of 
birds, with which they had been greeted at the 


The Moba and a Journey 51 

entrance, grew less frequent, and there was 
little to be heard except the monotonous rust- 
ling of the leaves and now and then the creak- 
ing of a fallen branch under the wheels. This 
silence turned the conversation to woodland 
nymphs and fairies, and at last to those myste- 
rious, charming creatures of Servian folk-lore, 
called vilas. 

“ I’d like to see them once, dancing in the 
moonlight,” remarked Dushan meditatively. 
“ They must look like angels, with their long, 
golden hair and white, gauzy wings.” 

“ I don’t much believe in them,” said Yovan, 
who was usually more matter-of-fact than his 
friend, “ except when I hear the story of Kralye- 
vich Marco 1 and the vila who was his poses - 
trima (adopted sister). Somehow that always 
sounds true to me.” 

“ I wish your father would tell it to us now,” 
said Dushan. 


The Royal Prince Marco. 


52 Our Little Servian Cousin 

Yovan’s father, who had Slavonic grey eyes, 
like Yovan’s, that always twinkled merrily un- 
der his sheep-skin cap, was entirely willing and 
at once began to relate some of the incidents in 
the life of one of the most popular of Servian 
heroes, Kralyevich Marco, who really lived, but 
about whom many fairy tales have gathered. 

THE KRALYEVICH MARCO AND THE VILA 
RAVIYOYLA 

Once upon a time the great Kralyevich 
Marco was riding in the green mountains of 
Miroch on his clear-sighted piebald, Sharats, 
accompanied by his dear adopted brother, the 
Voyvoda (chief) Mi'losh. Milosh was not only 
a great hero, but also the possessor of a wonder- 
ful voice, so pleasing that, when the Kralyevich 
Marco grew drowsy, he begged Milosh to sing 
to him. 

“ I dare not sing here,” returned Milosh. 
“We are in the country of the Vila Raviyoyla, 


The Moba and a Journey 53 

and she has threatened to kill me if I ever dare 
to do so in her domain.” 

“ You need have no fear,” said the Kralye- 
vich Marco, “ so long as I am with you with my 
famous piebald and golden mace. Sing, I beg 
of you.” 

So Milosh did as the prince wished, and sang 
of the old Servian kings of Macedonia. Before 
long his song was echoed by the vila, until she 
recognized the voice, which was far more 
beautiful than her own. Filled with envy, 
she shot arrows into his throat and into his 
heart. 

Then Marco became very angry, and pursued 
the vila on his swift-footed piebald. At last, in 
desperation, she flew up to the sky; but the 
Kralyevich hit her with his golden mace, and 
she fell back to the earth. 

As he stooped over her she begged him not 
to kill her. 

“ If you will spare me,” she pleaded, “ I will 


54 Our Little Servian Cousin 

gather herbs to heal your friend, and ever after 
be your posestrima.” 

So Marco let her go, and she cured Milosh 
with the herbs which she gathered, and after- 
wards proved several times of great service to 
the princely brother whom she had adopted. 

By the time the story was finished they had 
passed through the forest and come into sight 
of their destination. 


CHAPTER V 


THE GUSLAR 

This particular Zadruga 1 was surrounded by 
an immense, strong wall which no doubt, in 
times past, had helped protect it from the Turks. 
Inside this palisade was a large expanse of 
fields, with many fruit trees, particularly plum 
trees, surrounding the houses, which consisted 
of one large, well-built house of brick, encom- 
passed by numerous small, wooden houses. 

This large house was the home of the stare- 
shina, or elder, who regulated all the work of 
the community. He was elected by the mem- 
bers, and then was always obeyed without ques- 
tion. Besides the elder’s room and a guest 
chamber — for, to the Servian, a guest chamber 

1 A form of co-operative village association which is now dis- 
appearing in Servia. 

SS 


56 Our Little Servian Cousin 

is a matter of vital importance — it contained 
the rooms common to all : the kitchen, the 
dining-hall and family room. The small houses 
served merely as sleeping-rooms for the married 
sons and nephews and their wives. 

There was something delightfully cordial in 
the way in which the guests were welcomed at 
the place. It was evening when they arrived 
and after supper, which consisted of potatoes 
with milk and cheese, corn bread and a flat 
wheat cake called pogacha, Yovan and Dushan 
were invited by some of the children into the 
big kitchen. 

“We’re going to find out whether evil or 
good is waiting in store for you,” said one of the 
older boys, placing his hands on the shoulders 
of Yovan and Dushan, and leading them to a 
table. 

Here there was some game that had been 
killed that afternoon, and all the children 
crowded around to examine the entrails, and, 


The Guslar 


57 

amid much laughter, read what these prophesied 
for their guests. Tiring at last of this, all made 
their way to the family hall, where sixty or 
seventy persons were gathered for their usual 
social evening, the women spinning or sewing, 
the men repairing tools and telling stories, the 
smaller children playing, and all listening. 

Dushan and his party were not to be the only 
guests, however. They had hardly settled them- 
selves for a long, comfortable evening when the 
stareshina, who had not yet joined them, came in 
and, with uplifted finger, enforced an expectant 
silence. Then, going again to the door, he 
ushered in a blind minstrel {Guslar). There 
were loud and repeated expressions of pleasure 
at this unexpected arrival, for the Guslar was 
no stranger to the members of this settlement. 
He was of an interesting appearance, tall and 
broad-shouldered, his hair perfectly white. 
There was something unusually calm and dig- 
nified in the sightless face. He was followed 


58 Our Little Servian Cousin 

by a boy of about twelve years, who acted as 
his guide as he made his way from village to 
village, reciting the great national songs and 
accompanying them on the musical instrument 
( Gusle ) which he carried with him. 

The children clamored at once for songs; but 
this was not permitted until the singer had par- 
taken of food and drink. After these were 
placed before him and the youth with him, the 
young married women of the Zadruga continued 
to hover near, to anticipate any wishes and thus 
show him honor. 

When he had concluded, he told something 
of his journeying and then began the welcome 
evening entertainment with one of the never-old 
stories of the same Kralyevich Marco, who had 
a vila for his adopted sister; of his wonderful 
mace, made of sixty pounds of iron, thirty 
pounds of silver and nine pounds of gold; of 
his charger ( Sharats ) whom Marco treated as 
his best friend, the strongest; quickest, (and 



SERVIANS LISTENING TO A GUSLAR. 























































The Guslar 


59 

most intelligent horse in the world; and of 
Marco’s unfailing love and respect for his 
mother, the wise and good Yevrossima (Eu- 
phrosyme) . 

He could not have desired a more attentive 
audience, as he slowly chanted a couple of lines, 
then paused, and gave a few strokes on the 
Gusle from which he got his name, then pro- 
ceeded. This Gusle, like all of its kind, was a 
very primitive instrument, made of maple, the 
cavity covered by a tightly stretched skin, and 
the strings formed of horse hair. Its dull tone 
had something strangely pathetic about it, and 
added a particular emphasis to the words 
chanted. 

When he finished, and had had time for rest, 
he proved his wonderful memory by giving the 
long Servian poem — considered by many the 
finest in the language — of Ban Strahinya and 
another wonderful horse, and the victory of the 
two over the terrible Turk, V'lah-Ali. 


6o Our Little Servian Cousin 


“ But the just God was with Ban Strahinya; 

His grey horse was trained well for the combat; 

Such a war steed to-day there is nowhere; 

Neither the Servians nor Turks now possess 
such! ” 

This last poem contained over eight hundred 
lines, and the old minstrel was plainly exhausted 
at the end. As the last line was said all arose 
and expressed their hearty thanks, one or two 
almost reverently kissing the old Guslar’s hands, 
and then all separated for the night, Dushan 
and Yovan to whisper long of the heroes of old, 
whom they desired above all things to emulate. 

It seemed to the boys very early next morn- 
ing when Yovan’s father bade them make ready 
for departure. Breakfast was awaiting them in 
the big dining hall where, to their surprise, the 
boys found the other members of the community 
already assembled. The breakfast was a hearty 
one, and at its conclusion the women who had 
waited on the table kissed their guests’ hands 
with the quaint adieu : “ Go with fortune and 


The Guslar 


61 


forgive us.” The oxen were then brought out 
and harnessed to the wagon, the stareshina 
walking to the gate with them. 

When they had passed out, and had pro- 
ceeded a short distance down the road, Yovan’s 
father fired a gun which he had with him and 
cried out, “ God be with you ! ” This was an- 
swered by “ Good luck to you ! ” from the Za- 
druga , and the firing of another gun. 

Nothing of importance occurred on the home 
trip although, in passing near a village, they 
heard many rifle and pistol shots. Instead of 
being alarmed, all smiled, for they knew that 
this only showed that a wedding party was near, 
or that some young couple had just become en- 
gaged. 


CHAPTER VI 


SCHOOL DAYS 

The school of the little village was in a 
small, whitewashed, one-story building near the 
outskirts. The boys and girls, all under twelve 
years of age, that assembled there, when the 
fall term opened, were filled with curiosity, for 
a new teacher had been appointed, a teacher 
who had arrived at the village only the night 
before, and had not yet been seen by any of 
them. It is true that Peter Markovic asserted 
with considerable vagueness that he had heard 
that he was rather tall, and rather thin, and had 
either grey eyes or brown. At first Peter at- 
tracted some attention, but soon was listened to 
by the smaller children only. 

The pupils’ curiosity was satisfied when a man 
of medium height, but vigorous and energetic 

62 


School Days 63 

in build, strode into their midst. He greeted 
them pleasantly and invited them at once into 
the schoolhouse. The master of the school who 
had preceded him had been elderly, fond of 
politics, and, though not without talent, rather 
long-winded in his discussions and explanations 
to his class. So it was with an unconscious relief 
that the boys and girls came in contact with a 
new vigor and clear-sightedness. 

The discipline, rather strict the first few days, 
gradually relaxed; but, although no great for- 
mality reigned in the school, there was never 
any lack of respect for the teacher. 

With Dushan history was a favorite study, 
and he always rejoiced that considerable time 
was devoted in school to that of their native 
land. Even the youngest children, however, 
knew more of their history than is usual with 
the children of other lands, for they had im- 
bibed it since babyhood through ballads and folk 
stories. 


64 Our Little Servian Cousin 

Now, although Dushan was unusually bright 
in oral recitation, he had a great dislike for 
written work. The trouble was partly that his 
thoughts came more rapidly than he could put 
them down, and, in consequence, he was apt to 
make great haste and so express himself very 
poorly. 

The teacher often called his attention to a 
Servian proverb which he had written on the 
blackboard: “A wise man walks slowly; but 
reaches his goal quickly,” carefully explaining 
each time just what was meant. 

Dushan appreciated the teacher’s interest in 
his efforts, and did his best to please him, until, 
at last, he produced the following creditable 
essay : — 

A GLIMPSE INTO OUR HISTORY 

If Servia is not as great now as we could wish, 
it has its past glories to cheer our hearts, and 
to give renewed hope of what the future may 
bring. 


School Days 65 

In thinking of our famous rulers, some of us 
go back to the renowned Emperor Justinian, 
born in Northwestern Macedonia, who as- 
cended the throne of Constantinople in 527, and 
became the ruler of Rome, and of a great part 
of the Christian world. 

Our greatest glory was achieved under the 
Emperor Stephan Dushan Nemanyich, who 
lived in the fourteenth century, when Mace- 
donia, Albania, Thessaly, Northern Greece and 
Bulgaria, our neighbors, were annexed. This 
emperor was a famous law-maker and a re- 
nowned patron of literature and learning. But, 
alas, under the reign of his son, the empire rap- 
idly went into dissolution. In 1389, on the 
held of Kossovo, the Turks defeated the Ser- 
vians, who made a valiant resistance, and prac- 
tically ended Servian independence. 

From then to the beginning of the nineteenth 
century, the people of the entire Servian nation, 
with the exception of the brave mountaineers of 


66 Our Little Servian Cousin 


Montenegro, were changed into Rayahs, which 
is Turkish for “ conquered infidels.” They lost 
all rights and privileges, were compelled to pay 
one-tenth of the product of their labor to the 
Sultan, and lived in wretched fear of Turkish 
landlords, officials, and soldiers. For nearly 
four centuries our people had no means of 
redress for the injustice and indescribable 
wrongs committed by their heartless masters, 
except through their Hyduks, bands of armed 
Servians whom the Turks called brigands, but 
whom we reverence as the greatest of all of our 
heroes. 

It was through a leader of the Hyduks, 
through Kara George, or the Black George, 
that our freedom was won. We had then no 
schoolhouses, and our churches were ready to 
fall into ruins, for the Turks forbade our re- 
pairing them. We were restless, many of us 
hopeless. But, after a particularly horrible 
massacre by the Turkish Janissaries stationed in 


67 


School Days 

our capital, in which our leading men were slain, 
Kara George, a violent man, but a great leader, 
rallied the Servians together and drove the 
Turks from the country. 

Kara George was proclaimed king, and for 
nine years kept the Turks at bay. In 1813 
Turkey proclaimed a Holy War and succeeded 
in reconquering the country, forcing Kara 
George to flee to his mountain home. A new 
revolt broke out under Milosh Obrenovich, who 
had been a general under Kara George. This 
again was successful and the grateful people 
proclaimed Milosh a hero. 

When, later, Kara George returned and 
was murdered, people became divided in their 
allegiance to the two houses, that of Kara 
George and that of Obrenovich, a fact that has 
led to many disgraceful feuds in our history. 

It was scarcely a week after Dushan had had 
the honor of reading this essay to the class, that 


68 Our Little Servian Cousin 

not only the whole school, but the whole village, 
were thrown into a state of violent excitement 
by a report that war with Turkey was about to 
break out. The feeling against this enemy, 
through whom they had suffered such grievous 
wrongs, rose so high that even the youngest 
children were affected and it became necessary 
to close the school temporarily. Whole fam- 
ilies gathered together daily and almost hourly 
in the village square to listen to extemporaneous 
speeches and to sing patriotic songs. 

After four or five days of this life of passion- 
ate excitement it became plain that the news had 
been at least premature. An alliance, it was 
learned, had been formed with Montenegro, 
Bulgaria, and Greece. Although this seemed 
to indicate war in the future, no one could say 
when that future was to be. 

It was a considerable time after the scenes of 
our story that this alliance did lead, finally, to 
the war which began in October, 1912, in which 



KING PETER KARAGEORGEVITCH OF SERVIA 















































' 



































School Days 69 

the Balkan allies utterly defeated their old 
enemy Turkey. Unfortunately some of the 
good results of this war were nullified by the 
dissensions which broke out later regarding a 
proper division of the conquered territory. 
Whether these dissensions were encouraged by 
Austria, who has never looked with favor on 
the growth of the Balkan states, is a mooted 
question . 1 


1 See Editor’s note, page 99. 


CHAPTER VII 


A SPINNING BEE 

When the time came that there was no apple 
to be found on a tree, no late autumn flowers 
brightening the fields, and no stork hovering 
above the tree-tops or standing on house-chim- 
neys; when the air began to feel as if an in- 
visible snow was present, then spinning bees be- 
came a subject of conversation in the village. 

To Militza’s and Dushan’s joy it was decided 
that the very first was to be held at their house. 
So it came to pass that one Saturday the people 
of the village began to assemble there. All 
brought refreshments with them, this sensible 
custom of the place relieving any one family 
from the expense of providing for so many. 
The men came, as well as the women, for they 
were necessary to the full enjoyment of the eve- 

70 


A Spinning Bee 71 

ning. AH were in their Sunday finery. A big 
fire was burning in the wide-mouthed fireplace, 
above which a pot of water was boiling. The 
young girls, distinguished by red feathers in 
their hair, formed the first circle around the fire, 
never speaking, except to whisper together, un- 
less spoken to by their elders ; but giggling often 
in girl fashion among themselves, and now and 
then glancing shyly at the young men who sat 
furthest away. 

There was a gladsome, care-free, childlike 
spirit in the gathering, not often found in such 
gatherings in other lands. While the spinning 
was going on there were little witty ballads im- 
provised in which the men and women disputed, 
the latter generally winning. Now and then a 
woman chanted a beautiful lyric song, which, un- 
like most Slavonic songs, was full of a serene, 
cheerful spirit. At last came the story hour, in 
which all sorts of quaint folk tales were told, an 
effort being apparently made to see who could 


72 Our Little Servian Cousin 

think of the most ridiculous things. At last it 
fell to the turn of the oldest woman present to 
relate something, and, after a few preliminary 
coughs, she began a story of 

THE LITTLE COW BARULA 

“ There was once a man,” the story teller 
began, looking very important, “ who had a son 
called Pera. This son’s mother died, and the 
father, hoping to make it easier for the child, 
married again. But the stepmother took a dis- 
like to the lad and mistreated him, at last not 
even allowing him to live in the house. 

“ The boy offered no resistance, and so came 
to spend most of his time in the cow stalls, where 
he devoted himself to cleaning and caring for 
his one possession, a cow left him by his own 
mother. 

“ After a while his stepmother noticed it, and 
resolved that she would take away this comfort. 
She complained to her husband of being ill, and 
insisted that nothing but meat from the cow, 


73 


A Spinning Bee 

Barula, would cure her. Her husband, believing 
her, promised that the cow should be killed. 
When Pera heard this he burst into tears and 
ran to Barula. When the little cow saw his 
tear-stained face she inquired what was the 
matter. 

“ When Pera had told her, she said: ‘ Do not 
cry; they won’t do it, for they can’t catch me. 
When they find they can’t, they will order you 
to try. Do so, and I’ll let you ; then grab hold 
of my right horn, jump on my back, and we’ll 
run away together.’ 

“ It happened as the cow foretold. No one 
could catch Barula, so Pera was called. He did 
so at once, and, grabbing hold of her right horn, 
leaped on her back. In a flash they had started 
away, and were soon out of sight. 

“ After a long run they stopped at a deer 
meadow. Pera jumped down and, while the 
cow pastured, he lay in the grass. At noon the 
cow let Pera have a drink of milk, and then 


74 Our Little Servian Cousin 

again left him in order to pasture. At night she 
fed him again, and then lay down beside him. 

“ Thus the days passed, until one morning, 
after the cow, Barula, had left him, Pera found 
himself confronted by a big, fat stag. 

“ ‘ Good morning, Pera,’ said the stag. 

“ ‘ God be with you,’ answered Pera. 

“‘Where is Barula?’ 

“ ‘ Pasturing.’ 

“ ‘ As early as this? Well, I intend showing 
her on whose meadow she’s been feeding so 
gayly for more than a year. I am going to kill 
her.’ And the deer ran away, leaving Pera in 
tears. 

“ When noon came, Pera related all to Barula. 

“ ‘ Pay no attention to it,’ she answered, ‘ I 
know him. I am stronger than he.’ 

“ The next day the stag came and at once ran 
at the cow, who simply bent down her head and 
caught him on her horns. 

“ P£ra rejoiced, but not for long. The very 


A Spinning Bee 75 

next day another stag came, bigger and fatter 
than the first, and swore to kill Barula, not only 
because she had been pasturing on their meadow, 
but also because she had killed his brother. 
Pera began to cry; but, when he told Barula, 
she again comforted him. 

“ When the stag came the cow caught him 
on her horns, just as she had his brother. 

“ The third day still another stag came. He 
bore little resemblance to the other two, for he 
was so thin that every rib was visible. He also 
threatened to kill the cow; but his frail appear- 
ance gave Pera no anxiety. He sang and played 
on his pipe until Barula came, then he merrily 
told her how a stag who could hardly stand on 
his feet had threatened her. 

“ To his surprise the little cow gave a deep 
sigh. ‘ Ah, Pera, he will kill me, for he’s lighter 
than I. You must watch us carefully as we fight, 
and, when you see tears come into my eyes, catch 
hold of my right horn. It will come off, and 


76 Our Little Servian Cousin 

you must run with it wherever your eyes lead 
and your feet carry you.’ 

“ There was no help, loud although Pera 
complained. The next day the thin stag and 
Barula fought from early morning till evening. 
As it began to grow dusk Pera saw the tears, 
and caught hold of the cow’s right horn as 
he had been requested. It came off, and 
Pera ran away with it. At last, tired out, he 
rested. 

“ Hardly had his weariness passed than he 
began to wonder what was in the horn. At last 
his curiosity caused him to open it, when all 
kinds of domestic animals dashed out; horses, 
cattle, pigs, sheep, geese, ducks, and chick- 
ens. 

“ Pera would have liked to drive them back; 
but he found this impossible. It seemed that 
the more he tried to do so, the more came out. 
Suddenly, a dragon stood before him, and of- 
fered to get all back if he would promise to give 


A Spinning Bee 77 

him his wife to devour the night after his wed- 
ding. 

“ Knowing no other way out of the difficulty, 
and having no thought yet of marrying, Pera 
agreed, and the dragon drove all the cattle into 
the horn, closed it, and gave it to Pera. 

“ When dawn came Pera started home. As 
soon as he had entered the gates he opened the 
horn, and the domestic creatures trooped out 
until the yard was filled. 

“ When his stepmother saw this she could 
not behave graciously enough. Soon the news 
of his wealth spread, and the boy was urged to 
marry. He refused again and again, until at 
last the daughter of the Czar was offered him. 
But Pera remembered his promise to the dragon, 
and would not consent for a long time. At last, 
tired of entreaties, he agreed, and the ceremony 
was performed. 

“No sooner was the act done, however, than 
Pera was overcome with grief. He refused to 


78 Our Little Servian Cousin 

taste a morsel of food. At night his step- 
mother thrust a sweetened raisin roll into his 
hand, and this he placed untasted under his 
pillow. 

“ At midnight he heard a knock at the win- 
dow, followed by the dragon’s voice, ‘ Pera, 
Pera, fulfil your promise ! * 

“ Before he could answer the wheaten roll 
under his pillow answered for him. 

“ ‘ I will,’ it said, ‘ but first you must hear 
what has happened to me. First they buried me 
in the ground; I mourn for that, and yet do not 
mourn. Then they cut me down; but for that I 
mourn, and yet do not mourn. Then they bound 
me; and I mourn, and yet do not mourn for it. 
Then they threshed me; and I mourn for it, 
and yet do not mourn. Then they rolled me; 
and I mourn for it, and yet do not mourn. Then 
they ground me; and I mourn for it, and yet do 
not mourn for it. Then they kneaded me; and 
I mourn for it, and yet do not mourn. But, 


A Spinning Bee 79 

that they baked me, and then tore me apart, 
has made both my eyes run out.’ 

“ As the roll finished speaking the cock 
crowed, and the dragon was so amazed that he 
flew away, never to return. 

“ Thus Pera lived happily with his wife and, 
after his father-in-law’s death, he became the 
ruling Czar.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


CHRISTMAS 

“ As there’s no day without light 
So there’s no rejoicing without the Servian 
Christmas.” 

From the first of December the village chil- 
dren, when out of school, talked of little else 
than the coming of Christmas. Grandfathers 
and grandmothers, fathers and mothers, 
were teased to tell of how the day had been 
celebrated when they were little, and the chil- 
dren themselves never tired of recalling the joys 
of former years, and anticipating those to come. 

For more than a month before the day no 
meat, and no milk or eggs, were allowed as 
food, the meals consisted entirely of fish, vege- 
tables and fruits. 

On December third, the eve of St. Barbarosa, 

came the first of a series of preliminary celebra- 
80 


Christmas 8 1 

tions. On that day the families attended 
church, and in the evening Yovan came over 
to Dushan’s house. Militza, dressed in her 
best, skipped about with a big hymn book, writ- 
ten in queer-looking characters; but, when all 
had gathered in the living room, and sang 
Advent hymns, she forgot entirely to look 
into it. 

After several of these had been sung, all 
gathered around the hearth in the kitchen to 
watch, half merrily, half anxiously, the boiling 
of a mixture of grains and vegetables in a big 
pot of water. This was supposed to forecast 
the weather of the forthcoming year, and to 
foretell deaths in the family. It was important 
that the mixture should be tasted by every mem- 
ber and even by the cattle. 

But this was of small importance compared 
to what came on “ Mother Feast Day,” on 
the Sunday preceding that immediately be- 
fore Christmas. For several weeks before 


82 Our Little Servian Cousin 

Dushan’s mother had prepared gifts for the 
children. These she put under her pillow on 
Saturday night. 

Dushan and Militza awoke early, and, 
quickly dressing, hurried on tiptoe to her room. 
They found her apparently asleep and Dushan, 
who was in the lead, hastily tied her feet to- 
gether with a string which he had brought with 
him. His mother now opened her eyes, and 
begged to be free. 

“No, no,” cried the children, “not unless 
you pay us to release you.” 

“Pay?” exclaimed the mother, pretending 
surprise. “That is a strange request! Are 
you serious? ” 

“ Very serious,” responded Dushan and Mi- 
litza in chorus. 

“Well, since it must be,” the mother said, 
sighing, “how will this do?” and she pulled 
out a long strand of red ribbon, and handed it 
to Militza. 


Christmas 83 

“ Oh, dear mother ! ” cried Militza. “ That’s 
beautiful, and I’ll loosen the first knot.” 

“ Dear me ! are there more knots? ” said the 
mother. “ Then here’s something else,” and 
she handed a bright blue neck-scarf to Dushan. 

“Beautiful!” said the boy. “That un- 
loosens another knot.” 

Next a note book, in which Militza could 
keep recipes for jams, jellies, cakes, etc., was 
produced; then a handkerchief for Dushan, 
and so other knots were untied, one by one, 
until the children, satisfied nothing more was 
hidden, let the mother free, kissing her hands, 
and then dancing away with their gifts. 

The next Sunday was the “ Father Feast 
Day,” when the same performance with the 
father, instead of the mother, took place. This 
over, the children knew that the great festival 
was near. 

The Servian name for Christmas is Bojich, 
which means “ the Little God.” The celebra- 


84 Our Little Servian Cousin 

tion of “ the Little God ” begins on the morn- 
ing of the day before Christmas. This day is 
called the Badnyi Dan , a name of which no one 
seems to know the exact meaning, it perhaps 
having come down from pagan times. 

The morning was still full of the moisture of 
night when Dushan and his father went to a 
near-by forest to perform a very important part 
of the Christmas ceremony, the selecting and 
bringing home of a young oak tree — the Ser- 
vian Yule log. Having decided on one, they 
made a sign or two of the cross and uttered a 
short prayer. Then Dushan threw a handful 
of wheat at the tree and gravely greeted it with 
“ Happy Badnyi Dan to you ! ” 

Next he helped his father cut the tree down, 
working slowly and carefully, for it was very 
important that it should fall to the East about 
the time the sun’s rays should, first be seen. 
Anything else would indicate ill-fortune. 

When the tree was down it was cut into two 


Christmas 85 

logs, one a little longer than the other, and 
taken home. 

Militza and her mother stood at the door, 
anxiously awaiting them. The mother held a 
flat, unleavened wheat cake, which she broke on 
the larger log. The logs, now called Badnyak, 
were left to stand outside. 

This was only the beginning of what proved 
to be the busiest day of the entire year. 

The spotlessly clean house was decorated 
with ivy, and then Militza helped her mother 
to make ritual cakes of various forms and sizes, 
one for each member of the family, and also one 
for each of the domestic animals. These were 
to be served with the Christmas dinner. While 
his sister was busy indoors, Dushan was sent 
for a bundle of straw, which he bound with a 
rope and let stand near the Badnyak. 

He was helping his father prepare a suckling 
pig for roasting, when a group of his school- 
mates entered the yard, singing Christmas 


86 Our Little Servian Cousin 


carols. Militza at once joined them to visit the 
other village people. 

Before sunset, however, each of the band had 
returned home. 

At the precise setting of the sun, all of the 
family assembled in the family kitchen. The 
mother handed Dushan a pair of woollen 
gloves, and he immediately went out, returning 
soon, staggering under the weight of the larger 
log, and considering himself quite a Hercules. 

He was met at the threshold by his mother, 
who threw a special handful of wheat at him. 
As he stepped over the hearth he called out “ A 
Happy Christmas to you all,” which was an- 
swered in chorus: “May God and the Holy 
Christmas help you ! ” 

Then Dushan’s father placed the log on the 
andirons on the hearth so that it stuck out ten 
or twelve inches beyond. 

Now came the play part, dearly loved by all 
Servian children. The mother brought in the 



















- 









































\ 





























Christmas 87 

bundle of straw, Dushan and Militza took their 
places behind her and followed her as she 
walked through all the rooms. As she threw 
handfuls of straw on the floor she imitated the 
cackling of a hen: “ Chok! Chok! ” Dushan 
and Militza, representing baby chicks, followed, 
squeaking, “ Peep ! Pee-y-00 ! Pee-y-00 ! ” 

When the floors were well strewn, the father 
threw a handful of walnuts in each corner, ex- 
claiming as he did so : “ In the name of God the 
Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, 
Amen ! ” 

After various other ceremonies were per- 
formed, the table and the chairs were taken out 
of the room and the family sat down on sack- 
ing, placed on the floor, to a big supper — with- 
out meat, however. The children were re- 
minded not to harbor ill thoughts, and not to 
quarrel, or ill luck would come to them that 
year. 

When the supper was done Militza carefully 


88 Our Little Servian Cousin 


gathered up all the crumbs and scattered them 
outside for the birds, for they, being also God’s 
creatures, were not to be forgotten. 

On Christmas day smoke could have been 
seen ascending from all of the village chimneys 
by four o’clock, and from then until eight there 
was, of course, the usual firing of guns. 

At sunrise Militza was running as fast as her 
feet could move to the village brook for water. . 
Before she filled the two pots which she had 
brought, she threw a handful of wheat into the 
spring, wishing the water a Happy Christmas 
as she did so. When this water was brought 
home the first cupfuls were used to make a 
special Christmas cake, into which a small coin 
was placed, and pieces of crudely carved wood 
representing a cow, a pig, a sheep and a bee. 
At dinner it was Dushan’s luck to get the piece 
of cake with the coin, which made him certain 
that good luck would be his. To him, too, fell 
the wooden bee, which indicated that bees were 


Christmas 89 

to be his special care during the coming 
year. 

But, before the dinner was announced, a 
special Christmas visitor arrived. It was Yovan, 
Dushan’s bosom friend. He had some wheat 
with him, which he threw at all, while Dushan’s 
mother threw some at him. 

“ Christ is born,” exclaimed Yovan. 

u In truth, He is born,” responded the 
others. 

Then Yovan walked to the hearth and, 
striking the burning log with a shovel so that it 
threw out hundreds of sparks, said, “ May you 
have just as many oxen as there are sparks.” 
Then, striking it again : “ May you have as 
many sheep and pigs,” continuing this until 
he had mentioned all of the domestic animals 
and ending with “ May you have just as much 
good luck, prosperity, and happiness ! ” Then, 
walking up to Dushan’s father, he embraced 
him, and, returning to the hearth, crossed him- 


90 Our Little Servian Cousin 

self several times and, falling on his knees be- 
fore the Badnyak, kissed it and then placed a 
small coin on it as his Christmas offering. 

This done, he was led to a low chair. As he 
was about to sit down, Dushan snatched the 
chair away, so that he fell to the ground. This 
was done so that every good wish uttered by 
him should remain right there and not be car- 
ried off when he left. 

During the very merry meal to which all 
gathered later, the shades were drawn and a 
candle lit. Then the shadows of the different 
members of the family were carefully studied, 
for, if any appeared headless or with neck too 
far outstretched, it would betoken death. But 
the shadows, exceedingly grotesque though 
many of them were, behaved very well and, al- 
though they darkened the table, did nothing to 
darken the hearts of the gay company. The 
roast pig, with a small red apple in its mouth, 
had been placed in the center of the snowy cloth 


Christmas 


9 1 

on the table. Around it were vegetables, cakes, 
and fruit in quantities, so that there prom- 
ised to be an abundance for many days to 
come. 


CHAPTER IX 


BELGRADE 

Dushan and Yovan were together almost 
constantly during the winter and, when, in 
early spring, Yovan departed with his father 
for Belgrade, the capital of Servia, his friend 
felt very much deserted. He walked around 
with a woe-begone air which all the raillery of 
his schoolmates and sister could not change. 

It was not until the third day after Yovan’s 
departure that he came home in a happy, ex- 
cited manner, waving a letter which he had just 
received from his friend. The whole family 
gathered around him as, with trembling hands, 
he tore open the envelope. 

It was written in the queer Cyrillic characters 
used in Servia and several of the neighboring 
countries, and was as follows : 


92 


93 


Belgrade 

“ Bielgorod , 1 March 29. 

“ My Dearest Pobratime : Here I am, en- 
joying all the novel sights, although my heart 
aches that you are not with me, and I sadly miss 
my little village home, 

“ Bielgorod, as you know, is situated on high 
ground at the junction of the Danube and Save 
Rivers, and one has only to stand on the banks 
of the Danube to imagine the dark-skinned 
Magyars who live on the opposite shore, in 
Hungary. 

“ I hardly know what first to describe to you, 
dear Dushan. Perhaps you would like best the 
white fortress, high up on a hill at the junction 
of the two rivers — a magnificent location, 
commanding a view of miles of the Danube and 
the near-by, monotonous-looking plains of Hun- 
gary. 

“ Just back of it is the extinct volcano of 
Avala, where a vila is supposed to live. On its 

1 The Servian name for Belgrade, meaning “ the white city.” 


94 Our Little Servian Cousin 

top is an old citadel, once white, but now dark 
with age, which probably belonged to some Ser- 
vian of noble birth. If you were here I should 
be tempted to go with you to dig for the great 
treasure that is said to be hidden there. 

“ Near the fortress are some very pretty gar- 
dens, called the Kalemegdan, where we spent 
one afternoon admiring a famous view from the 
Fikir-Bair (the Slope of Dreaming). 

“ On the banks of the river, too, is a tower, 
called the Neboyscha (the Fearless), of which 
many terrible stories of the days of the Turks 
are related. 

“ Life in Bielgorod seems very different from 
that of our village. Electric tram cars and elec- 
tric lights are everywhere. In the morning the 
people promenade the streets, among them very 
beautifully dressed ladies, and many officers in 
neat uniforms. Then, from one till three, all 
is quiet — people are at home, many of them 
taking an afternoon nap. From three till seven 


Belgrade 95 

the streets again buzz with voices and the cafes 
are filled to overflowing. 

“ In these cafes I hear a great deal of French 
and Italian spoken, although my father tells 
me that there is much less than in former years. 
Every one who enters seems in the gayest spirits, 
and the air resounds with laughter. 

“ Most of the houses are small and white in 
color, with pretty gardens planted with acacias, 
lilacs and lime trees. I was interested in seeing 
that storks are permitted to build their nests in 
the chimneys, as with us. 

“ There are many public school buildings, 
and a university where I hope to study some 
time. The only Turkish houses I have seen, so 
far, are old dilapidated-looking ones, built of 
plaster, with red tiled roofs, on the river 
banks. These will probably soon be torn 
down. 

“ My uncle, with whom we are staying, in- 
troduced us to a Russian gentleman who could 


96 Our Little Servian Cousin 

not express enough astonishment at there being 
no squalid quarters in our capital. 

“ ‘ You are a fortunate people,’ he said, ‘ not 
to be daily confronted with misery as we are 
in Russia, and as people are in most of the 
countries of the civilized world.’ 

“ Then, turning to me, he remarked: ‘ I don’t 
suppose you know what a pauper is ! * 

“ I am afraid that I made a plundering an- 
swer, for he laughed and, patting me on the 
shoulder, exclaimed: 

“ 4 Be proud of that and not ashamed, my 
boy.’ 

44 I wonder how we happen to be so fortunate. 
Can it be because of our Zadrugas, our Mobas, 
and other ways of helping one another? 

44 Yesterday my aunt took me with her to the 
market where the peasants sell their wares. 
There were crowds of country people under the 
great trees, all in Sunday finery. We saw many 
flat, sheep’s-milk cheeses, piles of fruit, inclu- 



A PEDDLER OF SWEETENED WATER, BELGRADE 














































































t 

















































































































Belgrade 97 

ding enormous melons, and great masses of 
tomatoes. My aunt had to do considerable hag- 
gling before the prices suited her. While we 
were there two or three peddlers passed us with 
sweetened water for sale. 

“ On the way home I bought a dozen picture 
post cards, one with the portrait of our beloved 
King Peter, and I shall surely send several to 
you. 

“ I have been to the National Museum, the 
Botanical Gardens and the National Library. 
I visited the last with the son of one of the 
professors of the Military Academy and saw 
many valuable old Servian manuscripts. My 
friend was very enthusiastic over them. He 
says that he is going to make an especial study, 
some day, of our old literature and that, if he 
has the ability, he will translate some of it into 
other languages. 

“ And O, Dushan, you should go to the 
theater and hear the singing! We saw there 


98 Our Little Servian Cousin 

the drama written by His Majesty, King Nicola 
of Montenegro, called the 1 Empress of the 
Balkans.’ It shows very truly the great hero- 
ism of Montenegrin women. 

“ Father has been telling me something of 
the history of Bielgorod. It is wonderful to me 
to think that, after passing through the hands of 
many conquerors, after being besieged time and 
again by the Turks, it should still belong to us. 
One reason why it has been changing hands is 
because it has been considered the key to Hun- 
gary, and so an object of fierce contention be- 
tween Austria and Turkey. Perhaps Austria 
still desires it. I learned, too, that the Turks 
used to call it Darol-i- Jehad, which means ‘ the 
home for wars of faith.’ 

“ The people here are as fond of discussions 
as we are at home, and I have heard much re- 
garding the jealousies that exist between us and 
our neighbor, Bulgaria. I had to laugh heartily 
at some of the absurd stories told to illustrate 


Belgrade 99 

this; but, when I heard my uncle and the Rus- 
sian talking of the many Austrian spies in the 
city, I felt a fear clutch at my heart, for Austria 
would foster any differences. 

“ This must do until I return to our quieter 
village life next week, my pobratime. I em- 
brace you. My father joins in greetings to 
your family. 

“ Your ever true friend and brother, 

“ Yovan.” 


THE END. 


Editor’s Note : — Servia and her allies, 
Bulgaria, Greece and Montenegro, declared 
war on Turkey in October, 1912. The history 
of the war was one of unbroken success on the 
part of the allies, and in a short time Turkey 
lost all of her territory in Europe except the 
narrow strip in the immediate vicinity of Con- 
stantinople, and Constantinople itself was in 
danger of capture. 


ioo Our Little Servian Cousin 


At this point, the Great Powers of Europe 
intervened, and a treaty of peace was concluded 
whereby Turkey ceded to the allies all of her 
European possessions except the small territory 
extending along the Dardanelles and the Sea of 
Marmora from the Aegean Sea to the Black 
Sea. The Great Powers required that the King- 
dom of Albania should be created between 
Montenegro and Greece, but left to the allies 
the partition among themselves of the other ter- 
ritory ceded by Turkey. 

This was a signal for dissension among the 
allies. Servia and Greece, with the moral sup- 
port of little Montenegro, claimed that Bulgaria 
was demanding as her share more territory than 
had been originally stipulated in the treaty of 
alliance. Bulgaria, on the other hand, made 
counter charges, and matters went from bad to 
worse until finally, on July 8th, 1913, Servia 
formally declared war against Bulgaria, and 
similar action was promptly taken by Greece. 
The war, while of short duration, was one of 
the fiercest and most sanguinary in all history, 
and was only brought to a close when Rou- 
mania, which had remained inactive during the 


Editors Note 


IOI 


war with Turkey, suddenly took the part of 
Servia and Greece and prepared to invade Bul- 
garia from the north. 

A treaty of peace was signed on August ioth 
whereby tfie division of the territory ceded by 
Turkey is left to the arbitration of Belgium, 
Holland and Switzerland. Nothing has yet 
been settled, but it is hoped that the result will 
be not only the final freeing of Macedonia and 
Thrace from Turkish rule, but a lasting peace 
between the Balkan States. 


September 23, 1913 . 


V 




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• f 

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well as do the stories so admirably told by this author.” 
— Louisville Daily Courier. 

A LITTLE SHEPHERD OF PROVENCE 

By Evaleen Stein. 

Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by Diantha H. Marlowe $1.25 
“ The story should be one of the influences in the life 
of every child to whom good stories can be made to 
appeal.” — Public Ledger. 

THE LITTLE COUNT OF NORMANDY 

By Evaleen Stein. 

Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by John Goss . . $1.25 

“ This touching and pleasing story is told with a wealth 
of interest coupled with enlivening descriptions of the 
country where its scenes are laid and of the people there- 
of.” — Wilmington Every Evening . 

ALYS-ALL-ALONE 

By Una Macdonald. 

Cloth, 12mo, illustrated $1.50 

“ This is a most delightful, vrell-written, heart-stirring, 
happy ending story, which will gladden the heart of many 
a reader.” — Scranton Times. 

ALYS IN HAPPYLAND. A Sequel to “ Alys-All 

Alone.” By Una Macdonald. 

Cloth, 12mo, illustrated . . .$1.50 

“ The book is written with that taste and charm that 
prepare younger readers for the appreciation of good litera- 
ture when they are older.” — Chicago Tribune. 

A— 12 


BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


THE 

Little Cousin Series 

(trade mark) 

Each volume illustrated with six or more full page plates in 
tint. Cloth, i2mo, with decorative cover, 
per volume, 60 cents 

LIST OF TITLES 

By Mary Hazelton Wade, Mary F. 
Nixon-Roulet, Blanche McManus, 
Clara V. Winlow, Florence E. 
Mendel and Others 

Our Little African Cousin Our Little Hungarian Cousin 
Our Little Alaskan Cousin Our Little Indian Cousin 
Our Little Arabian Cousin Our Little Irish Cousin 
Our Little Argentine Cousin Our Little Italian Cousin 
Our Little Armenian Cousin Our Little Japanese Cousin 
Our Little Australian Cousin Our Little Jewish Cousin 
Our Little Austrian Cousin Our Little Korean Cousin 
Our Little Belgian Cousin Our Little Malayan (Brown) 
Our Little Bohemian Cousin Cousin 
Our Little Brazilian Cousin Our Little Mexican Cousin 
Our Little Bulgarian Cousin Our Little Norwegian Cousin 
Our Little Canadian Cousin Our Little Panama Cousin 
Our Little Chinese Cousin Our Little Persian Cousin 
Our Little Cuban Cousin Our Little Philippine Cousin 
Our Little Danish Cousin Our Little Polish Cousin 
Our Little Dutch Cousin Our Little Porto Rican Cousin 

Our Little Egyptian Cousin Our Little Portuguese Cousin 
Our Little English Cousin Our Little Russian Cousin 
Our Little Eskimo Cousin Our Little Scotch Cousin 
Our Little French Cousin Our Little Servian Cousin 
Our Little German Cousin Our Little Siamese Cousin 
Our Little Grecian Cousin Our Little Spanish Cousin 
Our Little Hawaiian Cousin Our Little Swedish Cousin 
Our Little Hindu Cousin Our Little Swiss Cousin 
Our Little Turkish Cousin 

A — 13 


L. C. PAGE & COMPANY'S 


THE LITTLE COUSINS OF LONG 
AGO SERIES 

The publishers have concluded that a companion series 
to “ The Little Cousin Series,” giving the every-day child 
life of ancient times will meet with approval, and like the 
other series will be welcomed by the children as well as 
by their elders. The volumes of this new series are accu- 
rate both historically and in the description of every-day 
life of the time, as well as interesting to the child. 

Small 12mo, cloth, illustrated 60c 

OUR LITTLE ROMAN COUSIN OF LONG 
AGO 

By Julia Darrow Cowles. 

OUR LITTLE ATHENIAN COUSIN OF LONG 
AGO 

By Julia Darrow Cowles. 

THE PHYLLIS SERIES 

By LENORE E. MULETS 
Each, one volume, cloth decorated, illustrated , SI. 25 

PHYLLIS’ INSECT STORIES 

PHYLLIS’ FLOWER STORIES 

PHYLLIS’ BIRD STORIES 

PHYLLIS’ STORIES OF LITTLE ANIMALS 

PHYLLIS’ STORIES OF BIG ANIMALS 

PHYLLIS’ TREE STORIES 

PHYLLIS’ STORIES OF LITTLE FISHES 

“ An original idea cleverly carried out. The volumes 
afford the best kind of entertainment; and the little girl 
heroine of them all will find friends in the girls of every 
part of the country. No juveniles can be commended 
more heartily.” — St. Louis Globe-Democrat. 

A— 14 


OCT 23 ISIS 


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